


Thirty Five

by peacefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mark on his arm itches, it is warm, staticky, a constant reminder of the burden he has always carried. He aches for the road home, aches for his library in Lebanon. Aches for his family. Aches for Cas and the warmth of his hand on his shoulder. On his back. On his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Five

_“Happy birthday, Dean.”_  
  
The text comes in the middle of the night, Dean lies awake, a hazy neon glow seeping through the motel curtains casts shadows on his face. He feels like he hasn’t slept in days, and mostly he hasn’t. He’s been moving, searching, drinking...lost. He didn’t even realize it was the 24th until now, and he considers for a moment deleting the message, pretending it didn’t illuminate his screen, or tug at his heart when he saw who it was from.

 _“Thanks, Cas,”_ he sends back finally.  
  
 _“How are you?”_ Cas replies quickly, almost too quickly, like he’s sitting in his chair with the phone in his hands, like he knows Dean is awake and has to answer if he’s still alive. The message is only letters but with them he can feel Cas’ shoulders relax, can see the tension in his face melt away. He still doesn’t understand why he cares so much.  
  
 _“Good,”_ he lies.  
  
 _“We miss you,”_ he receives in response, just as quickly as the first reply.  
  
 _“Shouldn’t,”_ is all he can bring himself to send back.  
  
 _“Can’t help it,”_ Cas replies, the message twinged in sadness. Pixels on a screen should not carry such a burden.  
  
 _“You okay?”_ Dean asks, and if he’s being honest it’s all he’s thought about since he’s been away. _Is Sam okay? Is Cas okay?_ It loops in his head, a spindle spinning dread and regret with every passing moment.  
  
 _“yes”_ are the three little letters Cas sends back instantly.  
  
 _“Sam?”_  
  
 _“He’s better, don’t worry.”_ Cas replies, a tiny comfort, not nearly enough to break through the shroud of guilt that encompasses him.  
  
 _“I always worry.”_  
  
 _“I know,"_ Cas replies, and seconds later, _“I miss you.”_  
  
 _“me too”_ is what he says, but he wishes he could bring himself to say so much more. _“Goodnight, Cas,”_ he decides to send after a while, needing to shut himself off from this contact before he allows himself to open up in ways he knows he’s not allowed to. Not now. Not ever.  
  
 _“Goodnight, Dean.”_ the message comes as a whisper, the punctuation on a night that has been seemingly endless.  
  
Dean lays the phone on this chest and stares at the ceiling. The mark on his arm itches, it is warm, staticky, a constant reminder of the burden he has always carried. He aches for the road home, aches for his library in Lebanon. Aches for his family. Aches for Cas and the warmth of his hand on his shoulder. On his back. On his face. Wrapped in his own. But he has work to do, has to make these 35 years he’s wasted count for something. He won’t drag them down with him this time, he’s going to do this alone. Alone is what he deserves.  
  
 _"Happy birthday_ ," he whispers to himself, the words taste bitter on his tongue, and he’s certain just before he drifts off for a few hours of fitful sleep, he’s never going to see the other side of 35.


End file.
